


and into the fire

by loganes



Series: the space between blue lines [6]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Colorado Avalanche, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 22:26:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7482327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loganes/pseuds/loganes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s just over the blue line, left side along the boards, when someone’s weight slams into his back and he’s flying, puck somewhere out of reach as his head connects with the glass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and into the fire

Their game against Boston comes a few weeks later, right before Christmas break, and Dylan’s in a bit of a slump. Most people wouldn’t call it that, probably, but back when they liked each other his brother used to tell him to ease up on his “ridiculously fucking high self-standards”. Dylan still thinks it was just so Danny had time to catch up—he never liked being second best, but then again, neither does Dylan, so maybe one way or another they were always bound to stop getting along. 

The first period goes by and a couple of Boston’s d-men are dogging him pretty consistently, on his back, no dirty hits yet though he can feel that that’s where the game is headed. It makes it difficult to get a clean pass off but he manages okay, though his line doesn’t capitalize on anything. By the second period he’s pissed off, score locked at zero. He’s never handled being shut down well, he knows that about himself, and he rarely ever fights but he’s itching to shove his fist into Kruchev’s face for that trip on Proulx earlier, one that wasn’t called, fucking biased refs. 

Coach has a few choice words for them during the second intermission. Dylan shuts his eyes, thinking about how they’ve been losing out on too many battles against the boards, too many faceoffs on top of that. Ryan’s been the only consistent one if Dylan’s being honest, not that it’s done much to help the rest of the team out. 

His thighs aren’t quite burning, yet, but he knows they will be if Coach decides to keep double-shifting their line, so he gets Romer to help him stretch for the last six minutes of the break. It’s all a good burn but he needs to feel fresh. There’s still plenty of time left to win it. 

Turner knocks his glove against Dylan’s helmet on their way back out onto the ice, says, “We’re gonna get you that puck, just do what you do and get down there.” 

It’s nothing they haven’t been trying all game, Boston well aware of Dylan’s speed, but maybe they weren’t quite on the same page until now. Dylan glances over at Ryan on the bench, where he’s chewing on a loose thread coming off his glove. Turner’s probably just taking on the role of the middle man, since he can’t imagine Ryan admitting directly to him that they need to get Dylan the puck. 

Lindberg sends Nielsy’s line out first, and they get a whistle just outside the Bruins’ blue line, putting the Avs in good faceoff position. Dylan swings a leg over the board, then the other once Coach okays them, him and Ryan and Turner lining up in tandem. Dylan flexes his fingers, stick comfortable in his hand, and nods when Ryan looks over.

It’s a messy battle after the ref drops the puck, but somehow Ryan gets control, backhands it behind to Turner who’s hanging back a little, giving them space, and Dylan’s ready for it when the puck hits his tape, moving as soon as it’s there.

He’s just over the blue line, left side along the boards, when someone’s weight slams into his back and he’s flying, puck somewhere out of reach as his head connects with the glass. For a second it barely registers, just the shock of an unexpected check while he gets his bearings, doesn’t even hear the scuffle going on nearby, but then he’s furious. Hasn’t had a point in over a week, and this fucker— 

He wheels around, sees Ryan with a fist in Kruchev’s face, and of course it was Kruchev, on his ass the whole game. There’s a trainer trying to catch up with him, make sure his head’s okay, but he skates over to Ryan anyway, grabs a handful of jersey and yanks him back, shoving at Kruchev. 

“Go fuck yourself,” he shouts, head ringing a little. Ryan hovers at his side, Dylan’s hand still tangled in his sweater, because wonders never cease. Clearly Kruchev has had enough, just flips the two of them off and follows the ref to the penalty box.

Dylan rolls his shoulders out in a stilted motion, trying to figure out if he feels okay. Nothing really hurts more than it should, and he’s definitely taken worse hits, but he sees Jim waiting in his periphery and knows he doesn’t have a choice against getting checked out. 

Someone nudges his arm, a gentle push that feels companionable. It’s Ryan, and Dylan quirks his lips up without meaning to.

“Thanks,” he says, because there’s not much else he can say.

Ryan shrugs. “It was a fucked up hit. Kruchev deserved it, anyway,” he says, casual, like it’s not completely new for him to be defending Dylan on the ice. 

“Either way,” Dylan pushes, holding his fist out before he can second-guess himself. For a moment he’s nervous Ryan will leave him hanging, but then Ryan cracks a smile, sheepish like he can’t help it, and bumps his glove against Dylan’s as he turns to head over to the bench. Dylan does a little victory cheer in his head, no shame, and then follows Jim back to the locker room. 

He’s fine, but he doesn’t make it back to the bench until the game’s almost over, doesn’t end up back on the ice at all. At least he gets to see Turner score with a minute left, pulling them up 1-0 for the win. 

A few of the guys start chirping Ryan for the quasi-fight as they file off the bench after the final horn and Dylan waits for a scornful response, something defensive, but Ryan just laughs with them, in a surprisingly good mood. 

“Why’s he so happy,” Dylan mutters to Jordy while they change. It’s not like it was that great a game, hard-won and exhausting. Obviously he’ll take a win, but he’d be happier with more point production. 

“Oh, he’s always like that when he’s home. Sometimes I feel bad the Bruins didn’t draft him,” Jordy grins, knocking his knuckles against Dylan’s shoulder before going to shower. 

Dylan doesn’t know Boston, but Ryan and a few of the other guys obviously do, because as soon as everyone’s dressed MacKinnon rounds them all up and gives them directions to a club in the city called Royale. Dylan has not been clubbing often, in part because he’s underage. It’s hard to see the appeal when Boston’s weather is literally hovering around five degrees and icy, but Proulx and Nielsy are going, so Dylan decides why the hell not. Apparently Ryan is meeting up with some of his hometown buddies—he’s loud about it on the way out of the rink, obnoxious on the phone, and he’s kind of eavesdropping when Rowe slings an arm around his neck. 

“Hope you got your fake on you,” he says. 

“Always,” Dylan says, offended that anyone would think otherwise. He shivers a little while they wait for their Uber, most guys already dispersed since they all needed to split up. “Fuck, it’s cold.”

“No shit,” Rowe says. “Aren’t you from Minnesota? Isn’t it, like, ten times colder there than it is here?” 

“Cold is cold,” Dylan retorts, because it is. Once it’s below twenty it all pretty much feels the same—shitty—and it’s raw here, too, on the coast. 

There’s a line outside the club, but the guys who already arrived must have paid the bouncer, because they’re waved to the front immediately. Dylan doesn’t even get carded, thanks very much, just a stamp on the back of his hand. The music is deafening, thumping bass that he feels through his shoes as they walk in. Dylan isn’t very good at having a fun time in places like this if he’s not drunk, so he beelines for the bar, Proulx close behind. 

“I think the other guys got a section somewhere!” Proulx shouts in his ear after they order a few shots.

“Want to find them?” Dylan says back, blinking at the burn of tequila in his throat. 

“Yeah! Let’s do a couple more, though,” Proulx grins, and Dylan mirrors it, abdomen pressed tight against the bar as more people crowd around. At some point on their way to the bar they lost Rowe, so they do their next shots quickly, one after the other, until they’re each seven shots down and wincing at the taste. 

“Holy fuck,” Dylan yells. Proulx nods emphatically, eyes looking a little glassy already, and then he glances over at the bartender like he’s going to buy another round. Dylan thinks they’re both probably good for the time being—Proulx is a good three inches shorter, no chance is he feeling it less than Dylan—so he gets a grip on Proulx’s bicep and tugs him away from the bar. 

After a couple minutes of pushing aimlessly through the dance floor, Proulx taps Dylan on the shoulder and points to their left, where, finally, he sees Nielsen’s head towering over everyone else. They make their way over and find everyone holding court on some couches around a low table that’s littered with half-empty bottles. Dylan snorts, nudging MacKinnon’s side. “Did you get bottle service or something?” he says, loud and close so Nate can hear him, slightly regretting covering all Proulx's drinks. 

MacKinnon just grins and shoves him lightly in the direction of the table, so Dylan assumes it’s a yes. Instead, he joins Niesly and Jordan, who’ve commandeered the only whiskey bottle. 

“Jesus, Dyls, Alex is fucking hammered already, what were you guys drinking?” Nielsy says in his ear.

Dylan smirks, making a grab for the whiskey bottle and swaying when Nielsy holds it out of reach. “Aw, what,” he says. 

“I don’t want both of you on the floor later,” Nielsy says dubiously, then takes a swig straight from the bottle, in typical classless fashion. Like, Dylan would’ve at least poured some into a glass. Maybe. 

“Hand it over,” Dylan says, “I’m bigger than Proulx, I can handle my shit.” 

Nielsy rolls his eyes so hard Dylan’s amazed they don’t get stuck that way, but he relents and passes Dylan the bottle, so at least there’s that. He catches sight of Ryan out of the corner of his eye, talking to some redhead closer to the dance floor, flanked by a couple of guys Dylan doesn’t recognize, likely his Boston friends. All at once Dylan feels the alcohol, the kind of dizzy sensation that only hits when he drinks too much too fast, and he leans against Nielsy to steady himself. 

“See,” Nielsy mutters, snatching the bottle easily out of Dylan’s loose grip, but whatever, it feels good, music thrumming in time with his pulse. Ryan throws his head back to laugh at something, bright and unselfconscious, everyone’s attention undivided on him, and it would be a stark realization, that Ryan is likable, could command a room if he wanted to, if Dylan hadn’t been on the receiving end of that loyal focus earlier. He still doesn’t know what to do with it, that fight, entirely in his defense.

Dylan blinks, watching Ryan’s hand on the redhead’s lower back. Maybe he needs to reciprocate somehow. Try a little to set Ryan up the way he does for Turner, for himself more often than not. It seems like a good idea, and he goes to let Nielsy know about it only to find that it’s just him and Jordan and Proulx left. 

“Where’d everyone go?” he wonders, and Jordan gestures vaguely at the dance floor. 

Fuck, he’s drunk. He closes his eyes for a second, exhaustion from the game warring with how wired he feels. The music’s electronic, bass-heavy and dirty, not what he chooses to listen to normally but there’s something physical about it that he’s into right now. 

“’M gonna dance,” Dylan says to Proulx, who gives him two thumbs-up with a lopsided grin.

Everyone’s sweaty and packed in close, barely any room for movement. For a second it looks kind of daunting, but Dylan’s tall and knows how to throw his strength around, so he pushes his way through the bodies until he finds a group of attractive girls who look like they’re about as drunk as he is. “Hey,” he shouts, directing it toward one of the blondes.

She doesn’t answer, but she gives him a smirk and then closes her hand around his wrist, pulling him in, so Dylan goes with it, letting her arrange their hips the way she wants until they’re moving in a slow grind, better than Dylan’s used to with girls because she’s tall, too. 

He presses his right hand to her lower back, right above her ass, keeping her close as her thigh grinds against his dick. He’s distantly horny, too drunk to want to do anything about it immediately. The song playing is building up, tensing for the drop, and Dylan leans down, opening his mouth against the girl’s neck when it happens. He feels her clasp a hand behind his neck, fingers tightening like she likes it, so he runs his tongue over her skin, tasting salt in her sweat, mingled with something bitter like perfume. Everything’s hot and slick, his hair plastered to his head beneath his hat, and when she turns around to grind her ass over Dylan’s crotch his arousal becomes more insistent. All of his drunken focus has narrowed to this girl’s body, and he slides his hands to her flat stomach, pressing his fingertips to her skin where it’s bare beneath her crop top. He’s half-hard in his jeans and there’s no way she can’t feel it, and when she tilts her head to give Dylan more room to kiss her neck he’s one-hundred-percent sure he’s getting his dick sucked later. 

That’s when he feels someone grab at his arm from behind him, and Dylan tries to shrug them off several times before squeezing the girl’s ass once in something like a handsy apology and whipping around to punch whoever it is in the throat. He doesn’t quite get that far, because it’s Nielsy, looking mostly apologetic for interrupting, and Dylan’s drunk but he’s not too far gone to know that Nielsy wouldn’t be bugging him for no reason. 

“We lost McNamara,” Nielsy shouts in his ear. 

Dylan shakes his head once. “Dude, he’s probably hooking up with that redhead from before,” he manages, glancing over his shoulder to make sure his girl hasn’t wandered away. She’s still there talking to one of her friends, looking relatively patient, but Dylan isn’t going to hedge his bets so he holds up a finger to Nielsy and slips his hand around her waist.

“Hey, so, I gotta take care of something, but can I get your number? If you’re free later?” he says, all eye contact. 

The girl’s lips quirk in a smirk and he congratulates himself in his head when she takes his phone, programming her number in with quick fingers. 

“I’ll text you later,” he promises, glancing down at where she’s put her name in as ‘Nicki from Boston’, and then hurries after Nielsy. “This is kind of bullshit,” he says when they’re side by side near the bar, “why does it matter that we find him? He’s a big boy.”

Nielsy’s mouth twists and he shakes his head, like he doesn’t want to answer. “He had a lot to drink, I just… look, you’re young, you’re new, but me and Nate don’t really like his buddies here. They always get him in trouble, and I just want to make sure he makes it back to the hotel, that’s all.”

Dylan just looks at him for a moment, then throws his hands up. “Fine, whatever. Let’s split up though, this place is big.”

He sends a text to Ryan on the off chance he’s looking at his phone, not that he thinks he’ll get a response, and then heads to the stairs, pausing at the top. If he was Mack and trying to hook up, where would he go? Despite Nielsy’s apparent concern, Dylan isn’t honestly that worried, like, how much trouble could Ryan get into with that girl, besides a nasty article on Deadspin? It’s not like that hasn’t happened before. But… Dylan checks his phone again, thinking about that night, about Ryan’s place on the team, and suddenly feels a little more anxious. It doesn’t mix well with how drunk he is, but he manages to get downstairs without issue, following instinct more than anything else, figuring that at least he probably wouldn’t try to fuck in a bathroom. 

To his left there’s the main entrance, where they all came into the club, and to his right he sees a smaller door, shoved back a-ways behind the stairs, neon exit sign above it. The bouncer is only paying attention to the people in line outside and no one’s hanging around this second door, so Dylan swallows, mouth tacky and dry from dehydration, and pushes the door open with his shoulder. 

There’s an immediate step down and he stumbles, throwing a hand out to steady himself, shivering a little from the drastic temperature drop. The alley is dimly lit but brighter than the club itself, and he blinks a couple times, looking down the end leading away from the street.

He blinks again, because no fucking way is he seeing this right. 

They must not have heard him come out, because Ryan fucking McNamara is on his knees, some guy’s dick still balls-deep in his mouth. He knows it’s him, same stupid white Patriots hat sitting backwards on his head, and Dylan can’t move, can’t stop watching.

Ryan pulls back to tongue at the crown of this guy’s dick, oblivious, and Dylan is suddenly rock hard, pent up arousal from earlier culminating in a visceral rush to his dick. He has to do something, stop this, who the hell knows who this guy is, but god. This is going to be jerkoff material for weeks. Weeks. Ryan’s cheeks hollow out, and shit, he looks like he knows what he’s doing, like this isn’t the first time. 

Dylan presses the heel of his palm to his dick, desperate for that bit of pressure, and, like the fucking drunk idiot he is, groans, little sound in the back of his throat that’s quiet but more than loud enough for them to hear.

Ryan abruptly pulls off the guy’s dick and whips his head in Dylan’s direction.

“The fuck?” the guy says, trying to pull Ryan back, but Ryan scrambles back out of his grip, sitting on his heels. “Who the fuck are you?” he adds, noticing Dylan, but Dylan’s still staring at Ryan.

For a second they just look at each other, silent, but then Dylan gets it together and walks over to where Ryan’s kneeling.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he says to the guy, shoving him sideways in an unpleasant scrape against the brick. His dick’s hanging out of his jeans, mostly hard even now, but Dylan does not give a flying shit, just wants this guy gone, hopes that Ryan couldn’t possibly be this stupid if he was sober. 

The guy looks for a second like he wants to put up a fight, but then Dylan’s size must sink in, and he settles for zipping up his pants and muttering a half-hearted curse at Dylan before heading back in the direction of the club.

Dylan waits for him to disappear around the corner and then turns to Ryan, who’s still on the fucking ground, cheeks flushed, blond hair curling around his neck like it does after a game. The thing is, he has no idea what to say: he’s not Ryan’s captain, not his coach, doesn’t really think it’s his place to ream the guy out for risking his career over a blowjob. Particularly not when it’s somewhat of a pot-kettle situation, but Ryan doesn’t know that. 

He exhales the breath he’s been holding and reaches down to grab a fistful of Ryan’s shirt, ungracefully yanking him to his feet. Ryan comes pliantly, eyes wide, uncertain, and that makes Dylan let go more quickly than he might’ve otherwise.

“I’m not going to say anything to anyone,” Dylan says slowly, forcing himself not to look away since Ryan’s brave enough to face him head on. “And it’s—there’s nothing wrong with—” he breaks off, frustrated, tongue clumsy in his mouth, and it makes him blunt. “You can’t be this stupid.” 

Ryan raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah? Fuck you, what the hell do you know?” he says. His voice is hoarse, and Dylan starkly remembers that not five minutes ago he had a dick in his mouth. He can’t help the way his eyes drop to Ryan’s lips, knowing Ryan can see it, and feels his own cheeks heat up.

He flicks his eyes back up to Ryan’s and says, “I know that you’re being a dumbfuck about this, hooking up with some stranger in an alley. Did he know who you were, Mack? Do you know you can trust this guy not to tweet about how Ryan McNamara sucked his dick in public?” It’s not really public, but whatever, semantics. 

Ryan winces at that and curls his mouth into a sneer. “Go fuck yourself, Pearson. At least I was getting some.”

“I don't give a fuck if you're not going to be smart about it," Dylan spits, mind reeling, heart beating too fast beneath the liquor. It shouldn’t come out of his mouth, what he says next, only the whiskey has loosened his tongue and he’s so mad, so sick of caring about Ryan’s career, that: “Christ, why do you think I never bring anyone home?”

It’s out there, finally, and if Ryan hadn’t figured out before he certainly gets it now, surprise blooming into understanding across his face.

“You like girls,” Ryan says, voice dipping up at the end to make it a question. 

“Yeah,” Dylan agrees. “I like guys too.” More, if he’s being honest with himself. He misses the rough scrape of stubble on his jaw, the unrestrained power of someone giving back just as good as Dylan can give. His heart continues to thump loudly in his chest as he watches Ryan. It’s just—he has never once been blind to Ryan’s attractiveness, only now it’s amplified, tangible because he caught the guy sucking dick, of all things. He never would’ve guessed, but here they are, so it’s not entirely his fault when he thinks about how maybe he needs to make it up to Ryan somehow, for interrupting things. 

Dylan clears his throat and crosses his arms over his chest, mostly because it’s actually freezing outside, and he’s not wearing a coat. “I uh. Owe you for that,” he says, tripping over the words. 

Ryan frowns at him, confused. “What?”

“Fuck,” Dylan breathes out. He’s equally nervous and horny, full of bad decisions, and it’s the latter that wins out. “I could suck your dick, sometime. If that’s something you’d be into. As buddies,” he tacks on, as if it would be anything else.

Ryan mouths the word ‘buddies’ after Dylan shuts up, looking way more amused than he has any right to be. 

“You don’t have to take me up on it,” Dylan mutters petulantly, preparing himself for rejection. After all, this is the same guy who rudely let him know they were never going to be friends, like, less than two weeks ago. 

Ryan lets out a snort at that, and all of a sudden he’s in Dylan’s space, body a line of heat that Dylan imagines he can feel, even with the existing space between them.

“Okay,” Ryan says. Dylan makes a noise of surprise, jumping a little when Ryan splays his fingers along Dylan’s ribs. It’s a light touch, almost cautious, but Dylan still sucks in a tense breath, abs fluttering with anticipation.

“Wh—tonight?” he asks, voice cracking at the end. He thinks about that girl from earlier, Nicki, about his promised text, but she’s suddenly a lot less appealing. 

“Sure. I didn’t get off. You definitely didn’t get off,” Ryan says casually, eyes dropping to Dylan’s crotch where he’s half-hard in his jeans. That certainty, the cockiness bleeding through in Ryan’s tone, makes Dylan’s cock twitch, and he suddenly doesn’t feel like they’re on an even playing field anymore. Ryan’s cool and collected as Dylan reacts, like he hadn’t been on his knees minutes before, and he realizes he likes it, needs Ryan to call the shots, here. 

Ryan tightens his fingers at Dylan’s side minutely before letting go. Dylan wants to chase the warmth.

“We should go back to the hotel,” Ryan says, pulling his phone out to presumably order an Uber, and Dylan stays in his space as they walk toward the sidewalk, feeling bolder now that he knows they’re actually doing this, whatever this is. 

He spares a brief thought to their forgotten teammates and fumbles for his phone, shooting a quick text off to the group that he and Ryan are safely on their way back. It sends a spark of heat through him, knowing that they won’t think anything of it, knowing how easy it’ll be to get away with this. When he puts his phone away, Ryan’s looking at him, and Dylan shivers. 

“You good?” Ryan says, eyes narrowed, like he’s actually interested in Dylan’s response, and it’s suddenly very clear that this is only happening because Dylan suggested it; that if Dylan were to change his mind and back out, Ryan would be cool with it. 

That, more than anything, is why he leans in and says “Yes,” emphatically, not a hint of doubt.

There’s a moment where Dylan thinks about kissing him, here in the open. Would Ryan let him? He thinks he would, at least now, while they’re both drunk and reckless, but then their Uber arrives, halting that train of thought, and Dylan stifles the urge as he clambers in after Ryan. 

Of course he can’t help thinking about their last Uber ride together, darkly remembering his mood then, Ryan’s anger. Ryan is quiet next to him and he wonders whether Ryan’s remembering it too. He doesn’t ask, just presses his leg to Ryan’s, stomach in knots because for all that he’s drunk and wants this, it probably won’t make anything easier between them during the day or on the ice. Then again, who’s he to say—it’s not like Ryan didn’t stick up for him earlier that night against Boston, fists and all, and he feels a flicker of interest as he plays through it in his mind, even as he wills his dick to calm down, at least for the duration of the ride.

By the time they make it back to their hotel room, Dylan has sobered up some more, though he’s not sure if Ryan has; he’s handsy as ever, made the elevator ride just short of torturous, and it doesn’t stop once Dylan shuts the door behind them. 

It’s like this: Ryan’s adept fingers tugging Dylan to him by the hem of his shirt, Ryan sliding a strong hand behind Dylan’s neck until they’re sharing air, Ryan ghosting his lips over Dylan’s in a tease of a kiss. It’s a lot and not enough, so Dylan takes it that last step, runs his tongue over Ryan’s bottom lip until Ryan opens up to him, taking back control. 

Ryan kisses confidently, thumb against Dylan’s jaw as his tongue slides hot and slick against Dylan’s. He doesn’t even notice they’ve been moving until his back hits the wall, and he startles, breaking away with a gasp. Ryan’s stupid hat is askew and he knocks it off, running his fingers through Ryan’s hair. It’s been a long-standing urge, and when he tugs on the ends Ryan groans, ducking his face into Dylan’s neck. 

Dylan’s head falls back against the wall with a thunk, dick straining in his jeans as Ryan laves his tongue over his neck, trailing with his teeth. 

“Fuck,” he says, enunciating the consonant. 

Ryan pulls back at that, though he leaves his palm pressed to the side of Dylan’s neck, calluses sending a shiver down Dylan’s spine. He tells himself to hold still, to let Ryan decide what the next move is, here.

Dylan knows what he likes; he hasn’t fucked around with many guys, could count them all on one hand, but the ones he has hooked up with provided a lot of opportunity for exploration, and Dylan took advantage. Ryan might look like a pro at giving head, but Dylan has no evidence to back that up and he doesn’t want to ask directly. This waiting game, though—Dylan is not patient, not when he’s this wound up, so he hooks his ankle behind Ryan’s knee and drags him in until their bodies are flush, pressed together chest to feet.

“You looked so good, before,” Dylan says, words sending a flush through his own cheeks as he meets Ryan’s eyes. “With a cock in your mouth, filling you up. Wanna see it again.” 

Ryan makes a sharp sound in his throat, fingers tightening minutely behind Dylan’s neck. “Yeah, I bet you do, Pearson,” he says softly, rubbing his free hand over the bulge of Dylan’s cock. Dylan shifts into the pressure, chasing it, and Ryan obliges, curling his thumb over the hard line of it. 

He’s so fucking hard and this isn’t nearly enough, not after watching Ryan take a dick like a champ. “Please,” he whimpers, eyelashes fluttering as Ryan flicks open the button and unzips his jeans in one deft motion. 

“Get your pants off and get on the bed,” Ryan says, abruptly stepping back to strip out of his own clothes. Dylan watches the ripple of Ryan’s abs as he pulls his shirt over his head and goddamn, he wants to get his mouth on them, run his tongue between the divots of Ryan’s muscles. He scrambles to catch up, getting naked with about zero finesse, not that he thinks Ryan cares in the slightest. 

Ryan’s standing by the bed, lazily stroking his cock with loose fingers as he watches Dylan, making a ‘go on’ gesture with his other hand when Dylan just stands there dumbly, his mouth watering a little. He gets his shit together and complies, lying back against the pillows; this will be way easier on Ryan’s knees, and then it hits him all over again that this is actually happening and he has to squeeze the base of his dick. Ryan crawls over him, thighs bracketing one of Dylan’s legs, and he keeps his hand in a slack circle around his dick, holding it upright. 

Ryan leans down, thumb swiping through the drop of precome at the tip of Dylan’s cock, and Dylan shudders, leaning up on his elbows enough that he’s got a few of Ryan’s mouth inches from his cock. He’s breathing too fast already, anticipation more than anything, and he lets go of himself when Ryan runs his tongue along the vein on the underside of his shaft, biting his lip against a moan. 

“Mmm, no,” Ryan says.

“What?” Dylan asks, confused, so beyond ready for Ryan’s mouth to be on him. 

“Wanna hear you,” he says, and Dylan sees that the tips of his ears are pink. Huh. 

“Can do,” Dylan agrees, shifting so there’s less weight on his shoulders, more on the pillows. “But Mack, for the love of god, can y—aaahhhhh, fuck.” 

It’s—fuck, it’s a pretty picture, Ryan’s lips stretched around the base of Dylan’s cock, but that’s nothing compared to how it feels. God, his fucking mouth, all tight wet heat that makes Dylan’s toes curl and his balls tighten up. He drops his head back, a low groan slipping out this time as Ryan does something with his tongue under his cockhead that sends electric sparks down his spine.

“Oh, shit,” Dylan chokes out, voice cracking high on the second syllable. He hasn’t had good head in what feels like forever, and Ryan doesn’t let up, mouthing wetly at the space above Dylan’s balls. He wraps a hand around Dylan’s cock, now slick with saliva, jerking it as he flicks his tongue over the slit.

Dylan’s panting like he double-shifted all night, hands fisted in the sheets because that’s safer than getting them on Ryan, but he wants to, wants to press his thumb in alongside his dick just to see the stretch. Ryan's doing plenty good without Dylan's help, though, choking a little whenever he sinks down too fast, too deep, and it's like a punch to the gut every time, how fucking good it feels.

He can’t always get off from a blowjob; this is not one of those times, and he knows he’s gonna go fast, can’t hold it off, especially not when Ryan’s mouth is this overwhelming.

He runs his tongue up that vein again, base to tip, and Dylan actually whimpers, body quaking with the effort not to come yet. Ryan makes a guttural noise, muffled as he sinks back down, Dylan’s cock bumping the back of his throat, and Dylan sees him get a hand on his own dick, fingers tight and erratic as he jerks himself off. It’s a whole other thing, watching Ryan get off on this, watching him get off on Dylan’s cock in his mouth, and he shudders, so close, just—

Ryan presses the pad of his thumb against Dylan’s asshole, a slight rough pressure that’s not more than a tease, and that’s it, Dylan’s done, flooding Ryan’s mouth with pulses of come before he even knows it’s happening. Ryan keeps his mouth on him, tongue swiping around the head until Dylan has to push him off, sensitivity just this side of painful. 

He takes a second to catch his breath, too blissed out to do much of anything, before he remembers that he should probably return the favor. “Ryan,” he rasps, shoving himself into a half-sitting position just in time to see Ryan shut his eyes and come in hot spurts across Dylan’s thighs. Dylan’s dick twitches feebly at that, and he grunts, pushing himself fully upright with herculean effort. He reaches out and pulls Ryan in for a kiss by the back of his neck, licking into his mouth and shivering when he can taste himself. 

“Sorry I didn’t help you out,” he mumbles regretfully against Ryan’s lips, biting at the plush of his bottom lip when he scoffs. 

“You didn’t even need to,” Ryan admits, running two fingers through the mess on Dylan’s thighs. Soon they’re going to be tacky and cool and he needs a shower, but this is—as quiet and calm as it’s ever been between them, and he doesn’t quite want to rush back to their fragile coexistence. 

“Next time,” Dylan says, after a moment’s hesitation. Yeah, he wants there to be a next time. 

Ryan stills beside him, but Dylan gives him a minute, has at least learned not to push when he can help it. 

“So it wasn’t just a one night offer?” Ryan clarifies, hint of a smirk threatening across his face. 

“I will let you suck me off every night,” Dylan says quickly, flushing because, okay, maybe he’s giving too much away. “Or the reverse. I’d be down for that, too,” he adds.

Ryan sucks his lower lip between his teeth, one eyebrow raised in that perfectly bitchy look he tends to save for the media. “Oh, would you?” he parrots, then exhales in something like a laugh. “This is…not what I expected.” 

Dylan shrugs, uncertainty bleeding through now that he’s a little more aware, fully sober and mostly recovered from his orgasm. This is not his friend, not his buddy. It’s a teammate, one he’s going to be in extremely close quarters with for the duration of the season, and they’ve already been playing with fire. “We don’t have to.” It feels like obligation to say it, but it’s not at all what he wants. Shit.

Ryan swings his gaze down to Dylan’s spent cock, to the come splattered across his skin, back up to his mouth, and then, finally, to his eyes. “No, we don’t,” Ryan says, and god, it sounds filthy, all kinds of inflection there on those three words. 

Dylan wants to kiss him again, but Ryan doesn’t lean in, just presses his palm against Dylan’s thigh as leverage to help him stand up and then lets go. 

“Soooo,” Dylan says, because he wants to be sure—

“Yes, Pearson, I’ll fucking blow you again,” Ryan says, walking into the bathroom and shutting the door.

It’s a bad idea, he knows that. Doesn’t mean it has to end badly.

**Author's Note:**

> T to E real fuckin' quick, to quote Drake. This part was not supposed to happen all at once, but then...it did.


End file.
